


The Hunger of the Pines

by Zooheaded



Series: The Hunter and the Thief [6]
Category: Diablo (Video Game), Diablo III
Genre: ADHD Character, Action/Adventure, Angst, Bisexual Character, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Cthulu undertones, Cults, Demisexual Character, Drama, Dysfunctional Relationships, Greater Rift Bickering lvl 88+, Horror, Human Sacrifice, Humor, M/M, Maybe Sexual Content, Multi, Pansexual Character, Romance, Torment level ten complaining, cosmic horror, occult weirdness, the vague true detective crossover no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zooheaded/pseuds/Zooheaded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which strange tales of an island off the coast of Westmarch surface with the appearance of a dead woman crowned in antlers, and our heroes investigate the dark secrets of a forgotten settlement that seems to exist on another plane of time entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning in Westmarch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _Alas, how many great palaces, how many goodly houses, how many noble mansions, once full of families, of lords and of ladies, remained empty even to the meanest servant! How many memorable families, how many ample heritages, how many famous fortunes were seen to remain with lawful heir! How many valiant men, how many fair ladies, how many sprightly youths... breakfasted in the morning with their kinsfolk, comrades, and friends and that same night supped with their ancestors in the other world!_
> 
> ―Giovanni Boccaccio, _Decameron_ , from _The First Day_

 

In the wake of what many scholars referred to as “The Great Mortality,” there was a period of civil unrest among those lucky enough to have survived. The deaths had come in such numbers and so swiftly, that the living had hardly been able to bury their dead. Many had believed that it was the end of the world, and indeed it would have been, if not for the tireless efforts of a few extraordinary individuals. Despite Sanctuary's long and colorful history of abnormal calamities, The Great Mortality was aptly referred to as the most devastating catastrophe of the modern age. It was in the aftermath of this great disaster, that a number of strange incidents were set into motion:

Wagons packed with hastily constructed pine coffins made up most of the city's street traffic for days on end. Removing and disposing of all of the dead in the city was a massive effort. The residents were unwilling to make use of the Repository of Bones a second time because of several reported incidents of strange creatures lurking within their depths. A forgotten issue that would need to be dealt with soon.

The cemetery was filled to the brim, and hardly a scrap of consecrated ground remained in the churchyards to meet the demand for traditional noble burials. Some even went so far as to dig up the bodies of those less fortunate in order to make room for others. Many noble crypts were broken into, and large trenches were dug in order to dispose of those who could not afford neither coffin nor tomb. In the end, they ran out of room, and the smoke from corpses being burned en masse blanketed the city in a fog of death.

Ashes were dumped into the river by the wheelbarrow full, making the Westmarch canal dark and silty, the currents carrying the remains into the Gulf and out to sea. Yellow and orange flowers soon joined their journey, the late blooming chrysanthemums drifting in the current among floating candles, lanterns, and the odd bobbing duck. At night, the canal resembled a river of twinkling stars, the very night sky brought low in mourning.

For a time, it seemed there would be peace between people of all races and class, for there was nothing that kindled man's fire of compassion better than a great tragedy, but when the tears had all dried, the grief waning, the camaraderie dissolved and the wild finger-pointing began:

The people of Westmarch were at first unsure of who was to be blamed, for surely there was _someone_ who should be punished for the world's suffering. The rich blamed the poor, and in turn, the poor blamed the rich, which resulted in several small riots, a rather unfortunate tavern incident involving a goat, and the ransacking and subsequent torching of a noted nobleman's summer house, before the authorities became involved and proper arrests were made.

Property which had been abandoned drew the eyes of less than reputable individuals, and there was much looting and destruction, as those off the street used empty homes and store fronts as if they themselves had owned them. The enforcement and authority of human law had all but dissolved and the Knights of Westmarch had their hands full stemming the tide of reckless wretchedness and thievery.

Some even found cause to blame cultural influences from the northern kingdoms of Xiansai and Ivgarod for the steep decline in the Zakarum faith, but their words carried little weight for the upper class who depended on Xiansai's ships for the trading of goods, and Ivgarod's valuable spices. Nevertheless, some locals took to shunning those who hailed from these regions and barred them from their shops.

Despite the current local opinion, Covetous Shen remained optimistic and was seemingly unaffected by the news, and curiously, his newly set up Night Market stand had yet to suffer any negative attentions.

With Westmarch being the epicenter of the disaster, it took considerably longer for those who fled the city to return to their homes, but once news of the capitol's safety spread, people migrated back in droves. Unfortunately, when they returned, there was hardly any food left to feed them all. Most, if not all of the livestock had been slaughtered in the attacks, and now there was little else but apples, some grains, and other late harvest crops to sustain the population. The prices of what remained had skyrocketed, making the poor poorer and hungrier than ever, and the rich devoted much of their wealth to food. With winter quickly approaching, people were afraid. There would have to be negotiations made to neighboring kingdoms for aid or surely there would be a famine, but for that, Westmarch needed a King.

Within a fortnight, Justinian's only son Daniel was hastily crowned amidst much protest from those still loyal to the Rakkis bloodline. Regardless, _The Great Mortality_ was swiftly proclaimed to be of divine origin, exacted as a punishment for man's sins and wickedness. Those who knew the true tale of things found this declaration immensely irritating, but the alternative was to reveal knowledge too heavy to be known by common folk. Not everyone had seen the angels after all, and most who had did not live long enough to recount their sightings to others.

In the following weeks, the proclamation of man's sin stood fast, and soon the churches were full to bursting with noble and peasant alike seeking repentance. The great Zakarum Cathedral atop the highest hill of Westmarch was once again alive with chant and choir, the smashed tulipwood organ rebuilt. Doubtlessly by a craftsman who's skills were inferior to the original.

The city had found its new routine, and the rest of the civilized world would surely follow.

Now, in a seldom used snickelway sandwiched between two brownstone houses, a flash of blue light could be seen by those who were looking, but precious few ever were. Jack stepped out into the main street, the Horadric Waypoint winking behind him before fading out. He passed by small shops and wealthy looking homes, relatively unbothered by people who either did not recognize him, or were too wary to approach. No matter the reason, it was good to be left alone.

Rain pelted the streets of Westmarch's Heights and the sounds of people going about their daily business was muted. They were good sounds, life continuing on despite everything, even if the rain brought ice along with it, the first glimpses of an approaching winter lingering long into the morning on the tips of tree branches and the edges of roofs, glittering like teardrop cut diamonds. Jack could not deny that he had always held a great appreciation for the colder months.

Ahead, six townhouses in a row were wrapped in layers of scaffolding, crutches for their burnt and crumbling walls. A handful of men were applying brick and mortar to their damaged exteriors. They worked tirelessly through the weather, the owners of the buildings no doubt anxious to have their homes ready for the hard season ahead.

He and Lyndon would have to leave soon if they were to reach the Demon Hunter settlement before the snows arrived. The window of time was narrow and fast approaching, and the way was difficult to navigate if the snows were too thick. Not to mention they had unfinished business in Kingsport. Jack did not want to make the mistake of putting it off again, but this time it was not his decision to make. If Lyndon wanted to go, then they would have to adapt their plans accordingly and leave much, much sooner.

The townhouse Lyndon had claimed as theirs some weeks ago appeared in his field of vision, and he felt a flush of warmth at the sight of it. It was the first permanent home he had lived in for quite some time. The stability gained from that forgotten life was... peaceful. He'd had his own room in the Demon Hunter settlement, but it had not been the same. A home was a precious thing, and Jack felt very strongly for those who had lost theirs.

It was discovered recently that the townhouse and the one next-door, were under the same deed of ownership. Lyndon had found the deed in a secret compartment within a stone wall whilst exploring the cellar, no doubt hoping to find a hidden cache of wine. The other house was being arranged to be given to Captain Haile and his adopted children, since their home and possessions had burned in Urzael's fire, and the original owner was, as Lyndon proclaimed  _“probably dead in a crevice somewhere like everyone else anyway, so don't even worry about it.”_

Captain Haile promised to keep an eye on Jack and Lyndon's possessions (mostly treasure that they didn't know what to do with) that were to be kept inside the main house, and a Waypoint would soon be constructed in the cellar for easy travel. As of now, the farthest they were able to get through the Horadric Waypoint system was New Tristram, and they'd have to cross the sea to reach the others. It would be incredibly convenient if more were constructed, or discovered and reactivated, but that was Eirena's, and perhaps Lorath's, area of expertise rather than Jack's.

At a public fountain further down the street, a Zakarum Priest stood upon a small wooden box, the book of his faith clutched in his bony fingers. His red robes had darkened at the edges to a deep blood color from the weight of the rain. The priest had been out in the elements for some time. Jack paused at the doorway of his home, key poised to turn in the lock, and listened:

“Your angers and your griefs and your separations are a fevered hallucination, one suffered by us all we prisoners of light and matter!” The man called out loudly, and Jack immediately felt a swift stab of annoyance. He struggled to remain tolerant of most religions, but the beliefs of the church clashed so sharply with what he knew to be truth, that it was becoming more and more difficult to keep it up. That, and he had yet to find any real evidence for some greater force watching over them.

Gods did not exist. Only Angels, Demons, and their eons-long grudge war.

“And there we all are, our faces pressed to the bars looking out, looking up, asking the question -- begging the question – _Akarat, are you there?_ Would that we had ears to hear. Because every moment, every _now_ , is an answer. Every beat of every heart, every second of every minute, every minute of every hour, every hour of every day is an answer! And the answer is, _"YES!"_ The priest cried emphatically, his arms outstretched joyously toward an iron clad grey sky that held no care for those living beneath it. Rain would fall no matter what gods the beasts of the world believed in.

As it always had. As it always would.

Jack sighed, and tried to refocus his thoughts to other things.

Awake since dawn, Jack had already spent a significant portion of his morning in the Church Enclave speaking with the resident Knights of Westmarch about the current state of things. Jack tried not to trouble himself over things that he had little experience in. He found it best to focus on what he was good at and avoided those who sought his opinion on other matters. He would prefer that no one ask for his good opinion on politics ever again, but he had long since accepted that it came with the territory of being a “hero.”

Now, fully recovered, there was an endless list of things to attend to, and wakefulness and energy burned through his limbs like liquid fire, and he practically vibrated with the need to get up, get out, and once more pledge his devotion to the cause for which his Calling had formed, the cause that he had etched in ink into his very skin: the utter destruction of the denizens of Hell.

He had been given some vague details from three different soldiers about some sort of recent disturbance occurring down by the harbour, and figured that "disturbances" were more his speed.

All well and good, though he supposed he ought to at least attempt to fetch Lyndon, lest the thief become despondent at having not been asked along. He turned the skeleton key and observed the spark of magic that unlocked the door. A curious trinket, and certainly useful. Lyndon was skilled enough at picking locks already, a magical key would do little more than hasten the inevitable.

Inside it was dim, all the window curtains drawn, and his eyes adjusted to the gloom immediately. The wall flanking the staircase had two golden candelabras freshly missing, and in their place were two small paintings, new additions doubtlessly acquired during one of Lyndon's recent “excursions.” They looked expensive, the frames gold leaf. He often wondered why Lyndon felt the need to acquire more gold when they had almost more than they could spend already. But, as the thief as terribly fond of saying, the gold wasn't going to spend itself.

There were some other curiously missing items, empty spaces noticeable amongst the clutter of wall decor, and Jack was beginning to wonder just _who_ exactly, was involved in the recent ransacking and torching of that nobleman's house. Jack tried piecing together the previous evening; he remembered Lyndon going to sleep around the same time he did, he remembered drinking Myriam's tea before bed to curb the headache he'd had that day, and any possible bad dreams. He'd slept heavily as he always did when he drank it, but remembered waking once to Lyndon crawling back into bed with him. _Had it been daylight then? No._ It didn't make sense.

Fortunately he needn't stretch his imagination far to discover who could fill in the missing pieces. He could hear loud snoring from the bottom step.

Inside the walls there was movement and familiar, friendly chittering. The ferret siblings seemed to be having quite the time, and were no doubt making large caches of shiny objects somewhere within the walls.

Upstairs, sunlight feathered in weakly through the partially drawn curtains on the window, giving the master bedroom a comforting blue glow. Perched on a ceiling beam, the falcon watched him, first with one eye, then it swiveled its head to the side to look with the other. There was a bread crumb trail of familiar clothes leading to the bed, and Jack noted the floor could use a good sweeping. More carnal odors mingled with Lyndon's natural collection of smells. It seemed the thief had been left to his own devices for too long.

The bed curtain was only partially drawn, and the large wolf was asleep on one side of the bed. Lately she had been almost as lazy as the thief, and for all of Lyndon's complaints of fleas, he had quickly stopped caring whether or not she slept on the bed, his only stipulation that she was never to “stink of dog,” an accusation she had found rather insulting. When Jack entered the room, she lifted her head and looked at him, then got up swiftly to greet him before bounding past him and down the stairs. He could hear the sound of the door opening and closing soon after.

That explained the tooth marks scratched on the doorknob.

It was rather late in the morning, but Jack was not surprised that Lyndon was still asleep, he often slept until the lunch hour if he could manage it. When some dire calamity or extended travel was not exhausting the thief daily, he seemed to struggle with falling asleep and waking up early. He often turned to his vices to ease the transition, which probably wasn't the best for him. When Jack let himself, he could be unconscious in minutes, a perk of his lifestyle, though he had been informed on more than one occasion that he slept unmoving, like a "warm corpse."

Unless he dreamed, but incidents of night terrors had been few and far between as of late and lessened even more so by the semi-frequent use of Myriam's sleep aid. He was immensely grateful for the respite and the superior rest he was receiving.

Lyndon often slept on his back or on his side, but almost always inevitably wound up on his stomach, the blankets twisted around him into a ball of fabric, like they were right now, and Jack hovered impatiently over the thief who was entombed in a ball of blankets, pillow clutched tightly to his chest, and snoring loud enough to resurrect the ashes of the dead.

Jack grasped a bare ankle that peeked beneath a down stuffed blanket and shook it, “Lyndon.”

The thief snorted and stirred, pulling the offended foot free from his grasp and back into the safety of the blankets like a turtle retracting its neck into its shell, “ _Mmph_.”

“Lyndon.” Jack tried again.

“Mmph.”

Sighing, Jack sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed his palm over Lyndon's back between his shoulder blades, where red scratches from their activities the night before mingled with far older white lines. Old wounds. It was fanciful of him, but Jack imagined the touch might soothe away the memory.

“Lyndon, wake up.”

The thief groaned and cracked open his eyes, squinting in the dim light, blinking at him “Muhh, what? When issit?” he rasped.

Jack stared back at him. “...When is what?”

Lyndon seemed to consider his question carefully, “....Now?”

“It's morning. Half past nine. You must wake up.”

Lyndon hugged his pillow tighter, and squeezed his eyes shut, “Gods, whatever _for_?”

“We're wanted down by the docks, the general wishes to speak to us about an important matter.”

“Us?” Lyndon asked stiffly, more awake now than he'd been a moment ago, “are you sure that great prick doesn't just mean _you_?" Lyndon sighed and stretched, "I barely got any sleep last night."

So he had gone out.

"And who's fault is that?" Jack answered crisply, ignoring Lyndon's open dislike of the man who led the King's Guard.

"Well, right now it's yours."

Fond of him as he was, the Demon Hunter could feel his patience slipping away, and he supposed he was not above picking the man up and dumping him on the floor, but he quickly squashed the urge, trying to stay on track.

“Of course you are not required to go if you would rather sleep, but I would like it if you came.”

In a moment, Lyndon's smile was all teeth, “Mmm, I'd like it if I came too.”

Jack snatched his hand away as if burned, feeling a spark of irritation kindle into a flame of annoyance, which always seemed to delight the thief, “It would please me if you developed some shame!” he snapped.

Lyndon laughed, “Well, it would please _me_ if you lost every ounce of yours. Don't be so dramatic!”

“I'm not!”

“Don't lie I read your little diary, I know what you're like. It was like a bloody funeral in book form!”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Now I'm dramatic _and_ a liar, that certainly doesn't sound like someone _else_ we know.”

Lyndon smiled, and put on a carefully schooled expression of innocence, “Who might that be?”

Jack sighed, and exchanged a tired glance with the falcon, “Certainly not you.”

“Mm, certainly not, I'm glad you agree, now, since you're _here_...” Lyndon purred, stretching, before attempting to drag himself bodily into Jack's lap, “how about a quick tumble? Pleasure before business and all that.”

“Gods Lyndon, surely you must have some physical limits, don't you ever tire?”

“What a silly question!” Lyndon said, then sat up and kissed him. Their noses brushed together and almost without thinking, Jack pushes his hand into the thief's hair, shorn a fortnight ago and messy, the irritation from earlier slipping away. Of course Lyndon was already devoid of any clothing, he often slept that way. He felt their tongues brush together and a wave of heat moved down his spine. There was an appeal in stripping and joining Lyndon there, where they could fall into each other and move together, but duty was always stronger than desire.

Jack pulled away and drew a fast breath, tongue already feeling numb in a familiar way, “We don't have time.”

Lyndon sighed rather petulantly and rested his forehead against the Demon Hunter's shoulder a moment, “Hmmmmmm, well that's better than an outright refusal I suppose.” He stretched again, popping his back, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up, padding toward the narrow hallway that led to the master bathroom, entirely unashamed of his nakedness.

“I'll get you later, a rain-check, I'm patient.” Lyndon said as he passed him, winking.

Jack averted his eyes, distracted enough already. “No you're not.”

“Sometimes I am!” He called from the bathroom.

“Ehhn...”

“Pfft. You know I think I liked you better when you slept until noon.” Lyndon replied over the sound of water being poured into a basin.

Jack got up from the bed and opened the window to let a bit of fresh air in, when he did so the falcon took flight and fluttered past him out the window and into the grey sky. “Ah, I'll have to cripple myself more often.”

“You're getting funnier every day. Must be my good influence.”

“...Or something.”

“Indeed. Now what are we doing again? Mucking about in the sewers? Lyndon asked expectantly, doubtlessly still cross over their excursion into the plague tunnels the other week. It had taken days and several washings to get the smell out of their clothes.

“The docks.” Jack reminded him.

“Ah, good. I was afraid it would be the sewers or the cemetery or something. Better the smell of fish and ocean than corpse and damp rot.”

“Mm.”

For a few minutes Jack sat quiet, listening to the sounds of the other getting making himself presentable. The soft jingle of jewelry and the rustle of fabric. Familiar sounds. _Comfortable._

Seemed as good a time as any to inquire about Lyndon's innocence.

“You weren't involved in any sort of mansion pillaging recently, were you?” Jack asked, offhandedly, feeling as though he already knew the answer.

There was a very quiet pause, just long enough to arouse suspicion. “Now, why would I go and do a thing like that?” Lyndon called back, his tone dripping with feigned innocence.

“Because you enjoy such activities.” Jack answered flatly.

“Ahh.”

There was another long pause.

“I know you were involved in some way or another. You waited until I was asleep and went out, you're a godsawful liar.” Jack accused.

Lyndon scoffed reentering the room and beginning to hunt around the cluttered floor for his clothes, “I'm the _best_ fucking liar you've ever encountered, and you know it! And it's not like it matters now does it? A _summer house_? HA! I've seen smaller palaces. He-”

“Don't say he deserved it Lyndon, that's not right. Someone could have been killed. _You_ included! And we've had more than enough of that already.” If Jack could go the rest of his life without ever suffering another thought or nightmare over Lyndon's near death experience at the hands of the angel of Wisdom cum Death, he would die a happy man, but Lyndon seemed to be bound and determined to put his life and freedom in danger at every ridiculous opportunity he managed to come across.

Lyndon narrowed his eyes at that, his dislike of those with excess wealth and power deeply ingrained. “Maybe he did deserve it. Have you met many nobles recently? Not exactly the nicest bunch are they?”

"No. But you might recall that you staying out of prison is at the courtesy of General Torion and his gratitude to me, and is _contingent_ upon your good behaviour." Jack lectured.

"I know, I _know_!"

The thief sighed, shrugging on a clean white shirt he'd discovered hidden partially under the bed, then softened his tone into something more apologetic. “And I wasn't “involved,” I was just passing through. An errand really. I'm _sorry_ , alright? I'm not always in terrible danger you know, I'm not going to burst into flames if I leave the house, and I don't make a habit of getting caught doing anything... questionable.”

“I know. I just...” Jack sighed, the anger bleeding out of him in a rush. He looked out the window, watching pigeons cluster close together against the cold and rain upon an adjacent roof, “I worry.” he said finally.

The truth certainly, but a gross understatement. Sometimes Jack felt as though he might worry himself right down into the grave.

“I know.” Lyndon said seriously, and he _did_ sound sorry, “I'm always careful. You weren't always around, you know? I was doing this long before we ever met.”

“I know.”

They were quiet for a moment, each feeling a bit more melancholy than they'd been before. Jack didn't approve of Lyndon's less than legal activities, and Lyndon was very aware of that. Generally it was something they both ignored, but it did, on occasion, rear its head at the most unexpected moments, but always ended up falling into the category of “a conversation for another time.”

“You do know that not every person born into privilege is bad don't you?” Jack said, trying to salvage the mood, or at least change it into something else.

Lyndon clicked his tongue disapprovingly, shrugging his heavy coat on and smoothing his hair back carefully, “how would you know? And why are you so in love with nobles all of a sudden? Just a few weeks ago you were practically glaring them into the ground.” Lyndon said, balancing his foot on the desk chair to lace up his boot.

“My _mother_ was one, and if blood prevails, myself as well, and now _you_ , due to your new collection of wealth and this house we now live in, didn't you think of that?” Jack said.

Lyndon stared at him, stricken, “Well, _that_ doesn't count!” he sputtered, scandalized at the thought of unwittingly becoming the very thing he hated the most.

Jack laughed at that, at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, and Lyndon laughed as well, the air in the room changing to something lighter.

“You're very strange.” Jack said eventually.

The thief snorted, “Well, you're hardly _Mister Normal_ yourself.”

“Are you done yet?”

“ _Yes!_ Gods, don't rush me. Do you think I just wake up looking this handsome?” Lyndon said gesturing to himself as he finished up, pulling his heavy crossbow over his shoulder.

Jack thinks of him lying in bed asleep, his hair messy and soft, face peaceful and boyish until a drowsy smile illuminated him when he woke in the morning, and his easy laughter and wandering hands that almost always followed.

“Yes.” Jack said with plain certainty.

“... _Oh_ , uh, heh.” Lyndon said, taken aback, a new, rather nervous looking crooked smile lit up his whole face, almost as though he were embarrassed, but surely that couldn't be possible.

"Well, you're not wrong," Lyndon said eventually with plastered on smugness.

He glanced away from Jack and out the window. “Eugh! You didn't tell me it was raining!” The thief whined, seemingly only just realizing that he actually _did_ have to go outside.

“You would have found out eventually. It seems your rain-check will have to wait.” Jack said, moving past him and down the stairs.

“ _Ha ha_.” Lyndon said sarcastically, then “there's nothing to eat and I'm _hungry_.”

“We'll find you something along the way. Come.”

“Later, like you said!” The thief laughed devilishly.

“Ugh...”

They locked the door behind them, disappearing into the gray morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes. It's been six months since I've done anything and blah blah blah and so on. Life and other awful things got in the way as they are won't to do, and while I impatiently vibrate in my chair waiting for more story content from another D3 expansion, this story should be an interesting diversion.
> 
> The Bubonic Plague that swept over Europe for two terrible years had far reaching consequences for religion, economics, politics, society, and the very trajectory of history from about the 14th century onward. I feel this famous historical event is easily comparable to the events of Reaper of Souls. I have attempted to hamfistedly incorporate what I think would be a realistic response to such an event based on what I know about the Plague. If all of this societal jibberjabber interests you, please allow me to recommend some further reading: The Black Death: The Great Mortality of 1348-1350: A Brief History with Documents.
> 
> Finally, you can expect some references to True Detective, but it should be noted that Rust and Marty will not make cameos in this story. They're very comfortable in Modern Louisiana living out their domestic redneck bliss tyvm and don't need any of this whacked out medieval bullshit set in a fantasy version of what is basically a nightmare Australia.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter I most certainly didn't edit, and there will be more coming soon!


	2. No Sinner Like A Young Saint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It never really ended well when Lyndon had too much time to wander inside his own head.

 

  

Apples.

It was always apples. Days of apples. Weeks of apples. Baked apples, apple tarts, apple bread, apple pie, apple cake, apple braised bloody _apples_. Lyndon had never eaten so many gods-damned apples in his entire wretched life. It was not that he didn't _like_ apples, (he did) and it wasn't that he didn't know that the massive family owned orchard just outside the city (Wooster's? Worchester's? Whatever.) was left mostly intact and all of the fruit was still on the trees in good condition, and they had to make do with what they had but, well.... one did eventually tire of eating apples.

They'd only been outside a few minutes and already Lyndon was getting tired of this damned rain. He had his hood pulled up over his head, surely messing up his hair, and he could almost swear he could feel moisture dripping down the back of his neck. Waypoints always made things go a little bit faster, but they also tended to make him a little nauseous and he didn't much like that part, especially on an empty stomach. But it was better than spending any longer wandering around aimlessly in nasty weather.

Better than eating apples again.

Gods, if he even so much as saw another bloody fucking apple he was going to vomit all over the nearest person. This would most likely be the Demon Hunter, seeing as how they were joined at the hip these days, but Lyndon didn't doubt that he would be a good sport about it.

Speaking of Jack, it was rather _nice_ , this little arrangement they had together. He didn't have to spend half his day looking for the next place, and the next person he was going to spend his evening with. He didn't have to worry about any of his things being nicked by said person. He didn't have to worry about being murdered in his sleep, or being hunted down by the guild, or going hungry, or _Gods_ , he could fuck Jack as hard as he could manage and didn't have to worry about hurting him at all and Jack only asked for more, more, _more_ , and wasn't _that_ just a marvelous thing, and-

_-and he didn't have to worry about being alone anymore._

Ah yes. The big ugly truth. He'd run through just about every benefit to himself that he could promptly think of, skirting around the obvious fact that the best bit about this whole thing was to have someone care about him again, and Jack _did_ care about him, Lyndon wasn't so obtuse that he couldn't see that. His words this morning were proof enough, even if Lyndon _were_ stupid and unobservant enough to have not yet noticed.

_I worry._

Yes, and _that_ had made guilt fill up every little empty crevice in his chest like frost creeping over a window pane. The sharpness of cold sweat forming between his shoulder blades that felt something like shame. Honestly, now that he was thinking coherently about it, he's surprised he'd gotten off that easily. He had expected anger. At the very _least_ a tiresome lecture. Not that sad pair of words that were somehow so much worse than either.

At the time, Lyndon hadn't been precisely sure why he'd thought going to that Noble's summer house had been a good idea. Something about _fun_ , and _stealing_ , and the dizzying thrill of escaping certain death. That sort of thing. All fun and games until someone loses an eye, eh? _Or their head._ Gods, he never thought these things through, but he'd been in the Ram's Head tavern with Haedrig and Hanson that fateful evening, their favored haunt, having a pint and shooting the shit as they often did, when he'd overheard enough small Guild coded details to put together that there was going to be a planned raid later in the evening.

Angry locals and guild toadies were involved. Even one Guildy he'd recognized, someone who would have certainly recognized _him_ had Lyndon been seen.

In hindsight, an absolutely gods-awful idea for him to go alone, let alone go in the first place, but it wasn't like he'd been directly involved, right? He'd only waited until the whole mess was nearly over before he made the journey to the pretty little park where the noble's house was, slipped inside unnoticed through the window as easy as a summer breeze, then made off with whatever he could carry before the fire caught.

After, the familiar rush of a well executed heist was marvelous. Stealing always made him feel good. It reminded him of when he was a bit younger, pulling off complicated schemes with his brother that benefited King's Guard and Thieves Guild alike, but here, in the cold and unfortunately rainy, soggy, and grey light of day, he could see the whole thing for what it was:

A dangerous distraction from his own miserable thoughts.

Ahh, morning introspection did have its moments.

And that terribly guilty feeling was supposed to mean that he had to start caring about himself, yes? For the sake of another's peace of mind and, dare he think it, _happiness_. Because Jack cared about him. Because Jack _liked_ being with him or some such rubbish, and Lyndon was beginning to get the wild idea that he kind of liked it too. That it made him feel _good_ about himself for once. The thought was equal parts comforting and terrifying. It was a new experience, well, almost new. He had stayed with one person for a long period of time once before, years ago, and that had turned out just wonderfully hadn't it? Kicked to the curb, heartbroken (yes, he recognized that now), his brother taking his place, then getting arrested, his friends and allies turning on him, the whole damn Thieves Guild out for his blood from Kingsport to Kurast.

 _Edlin dead. The worst thing of all._ A difficult fact he tried very, _very_ hard not to think about. In fact, it had hardly crossed his mind since that night he'd spoken with the Necromancer.

With the exception of that fucking _General_. That fucking _General_ who was always watching him with twelve pairs of eyes whenever he went anywhere, and that fucking _General_ who threw poor people in jail for the smallest of infractions and could hardly keep his great bloody prison running properly. Couldn't even keep the Thieves Guild out.

_Couldn't keep his brother from getting murdered in his own cell._

He could really use a drink. Maybe twelve drinks. Gods knew he was absolutely useless in the morning before he'd had his tea and whiskey anyway.

They walked briskly, Lyndon just a step behind the Demon Hunter, noting his thinly veiled impatience. Maybe if he wanted to get somewhere quickly they should build some more Waypoints instead of running around the city like chickens with their heads cut off. Maybe it was too much trouble, Lyndon didn't really understand how these things worked. Eh, he didn't really want to travel that way unless he had to anyway....

What had he been thinking about? _Oh, right. Depressingly awful and terrible things!_

For some unfathomable, idiotic, _insane_ reason, he thought he might love Rea still. Despite everything. He thought sometimes, that maybe the letter in the dagger had all been a lie concocted by some Guild cronie. He thought she might be innocent and that things could still work out and they could get back together and live in a little house, raise his brother's children, and live happily ever after.

 _Gods_ , how he'd pined for her when she'd left him. It had hurt so badly he'd thought he was going to die from it, but he was obviously still here wasn't he?

And no, a temporary death absolutely did not count.

He stopped wondering just _why_ , exactly, he thought these ridiculous things, he just assumed that there was something terribly wrong with him, _obviously,_ because he knew she'd done it. He knew it in his gut, and she hadn't been exactly nice to him when they'd been together either, he just hadn't realized because he'd been young and stupid. He must've had a screw loose, he must've been going soft in the head. That, and his stupid little fantasy didn't leave any room for the Demon Hunter now did it? Someone who _was_ actually nice to him, and liked spending time with him, and-

“Lyndon, whatever's the matter?” Jack's voice cut through the swirling fog of his thoughts, sharp as a blade.

_Fuck!_

“What?”

“You're frowning, and you're going to make that thumbnail bleed if you gnaw on it any more.”

He hadn't realized, and even as Jack said it, Lyndon could already taste copper on his tongue and swiftly put both hands into his pockets, the numerous trinkets he kept upon his person proving to be a better distraction for his busy hands. _Gods, what the Hell were we doing out here again?! Oh, right._ “Well, I'm _starving_ , I have to resort to cannibalism or else I'll pass away!”

That seemed to be a good enough answer for Jack, who was more inclined to trust his word nowadays. How endearingly and conveniently naive he was. _Ahh, more guilt._

Jack did that little half frown he always did when he didn't want to actually move his face enough to convey an actual expression. It was funny. “We're almost there, Myriam will surely have something leftover for you.”

Of course Lyndon had gone hungry more than once in his life, and for far, far longer than a single night, but a well placed deflection could avoid all sorts of uncomfortable conversations.

Having an _awful_ lot of sex was also quite good for avoiding uncomfortable conversations. He wasn't exactly sure if it was Jack's lifetime of self imposed deprivation, or his admittedly misguided fondness for Lyndon, but it was exceedingly easy to distract the Demon Hunter with such things. Or maybe he really was just _that_ good. Jack couldn't ask about his feelings with Lyndon's tongue in his mouth now could he? An excellent plan that did nice things for both of them! Truly, he was a genius. He'd pat himself on the back right now if it wouldn't arouse suspicion.

Lyndon had spent an extraordinary amount of time doing just about everything to Jack in as many positions that they could comfortably manage. More time than he'd spent with anyone else in... _years_. Had it been years? Let's see, just last summer there'd been Alicia, Ruth, Evelyn, Sophie, that lad from that tavern the one time. William wasn't it? Maybe Michael. _Bah_. Oh, and another Ruth, rather common name he supposed. All very lovely and all very, very brief.

The longest fling he could recall engaging in outside of Jack and... Rea of course, had been about a week. _Ahh, Mariella!_ And if he hadn't been thrown out for being caught with her sister he would have just ended it soon enough anyway, then disappeared. _Escaped_. But this time, he didn't feel that way. Maybe it had something to do with Jack, Kormac, Eirena and everyone being just about all he had left. Jack was the best friend he'd ever had, tolerated him when others would have given up, _did_ give up. Actually hoping and wanting to stick around was strange, it was _confusing_ , and even a little bit scary, and he didn't like thinking about it one bit.

So he should obviously think of nicer things right? Right.

Nice things like rutting against an arse so bloody perfect Lyndon could probably bounce coppers off it, and inflicting bruises that would all be gone by morning, empty space, like a blank page, for him to start _all over again_ and they would probably break that headboard soon if they weren't careful. Not that it mattered, since they could probably just get a new one. And that oh so delicious way Jack said his name in the throes of passion, no request made ever refused, sobbing out his pleasure and clutching at him with a supernatural strength that none of his previous bed partners could even dream of possessing.

Now that they'd gone down the list twice through, Lyndon was starting to wonder if he'd like to turn the tables a bit and have some of that Demon Hunter ferocity that made his blood so hot directed at _him_ for a change. He couldn't turn tail and flee the country if he hadn't had it all yet, right? _(Did he even still want to run?)_ Maybe Jack would.... but he was always so bloody _hesitant_ , and it would probably be better than the last time he'd let someone... surely any experience would be better than _that_ , ohh, but how _much_ better? He swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. Jack always tried to be careful, but often got away from himself and bit and scratched hard enough to draw blood. But Hell, Lyndon found he kind of _liked_ that. Made things intriguingly more dangerous. Mm, maybe they could-

- _Hmm_.... probably best to think of something else before he made a scene of himself in public again.

He spied an apple core on the ground. _Not apples. Eugh._

“Are you alright?” Jack again.

Had he said something out loud? _Shit!_

Lyndon wasn’t biting his fingernails off and he wasn't visibly aroused in public. Pretty good day for him so far if he did say so himself. Practically respectable. “What?!” he squawked.

“You're making an odd face.”

“What's wrong with my face?”

“Nothing, I- never mind...”

Right. Good. But he wasn't alright, because what he'd really like to do was an about-face and march the Demon Hunter back the way they came, push him back onto the rumpled bed and do a thousand and one filthy things to him-

_-other things, other things, please think of other things-_

_Stability!_ A good word, and one that was certainly good for him he'd come to find, it was nice and he liked Jack a lot and every thing was going well and would likely continue to do so right up until it didn't. He felt like he was supposed to start keeping promises now, promises for all sorts of things, and that was something he'd _certainly_ never succeeded at before. This sort of thing, relationships lasting longer than a few weeks at most, never worked out for him, eventually all of his nastiness would come out in the wash and Jack would no longer tolerate him and he'd have to leave.

_And after that?_

He didn't know. Back to his old habits maybe, but they didn't hold much of the same appeal as they'd used to. He didn't really know what he would do, probably drink himself into an early grave inside the nearest tavern, but before he depressed himself any further, it was probably best to stop and think of something else.

Like the throng of irritatingly pious nobodies trampling each other as they all attempted to enter the passageway that would take them to the Enclave, and “great” Zakarum Cathedral, all at once. Useless, the lot of them.

“Well, they're in a hurry. Maybe it's the uh, eleven o'clock stale bread giveaway. Ha.”

“There is a service at eleven. There are several a day.” Jack didn't sound particularly thrilled about that, but Lyndon could understand, church was unbearably boring.

Speaking of...

“Please tell me that whatever it is we're doing doesn't involve going to church...” He said pleadingly. He'd already come willingly, leaving the warmth and safety of bed in order to stroll about in cold wet wretchedness. Doing it all for church would be more than he could tolerate.

Jack glanced at him as they waited for the crowd to move on ahead of them, then entering the passage themselves. “It doesn't. The docks, remember? But you should probably go anyway to atone for your many sins.”

Lyndon grinned and threaded his arm together with the Demon Hunter's, patting his hand affectionately, then sneered at a passerby who gave them a filthy look. “Oh really? If I recall correctly you were right there with me, sinning away, unless I imagined last night.”

Jack wouldn't look at him, pointedly staring at pigeons or squirrels or whatever it was he liked to look at. It was _endlessly_ funny how embarrassed he got. “You have a wild imagination.”

“That's not the only thing that's wild around here, darling.” Lyndon purred as sensuously as he could manage, outside in a decidedly unromantic atmosphere.

The passage to the Enclave was dim and flanked with many creepy looking statues. Mostly of Akarat and other saints. Doubtlessly intended to make you feel bad about yourself. You'd think they could add a little torch light in here or something, liven the place up a bit. Somebody might get _robbed_. He grinned just thinking about it.

Jack ignored him and continued, which in itself was amusing. “Either way, I'm sure we're damned enough already.”

“You say that like it's such a bad thing.” Lyndon remarked airily, “we went to Hell before and it wasn't all that terrible now was it? A bit warm and smelly sure, but we handled ourselves pretty well I'd say.”

Jack smiled, which was what Lyndon was hoping for. It meant that they were alright, _...right?_

“Well enough.” The Demon Hunter said.

“So we'll be fine. No need to fret.” Lyndon insisted, and Jack smiled at him again, that kind of upturned quirk of his lips that he did when he didn't want to show his teeth. A shame, he had nice teeth. Very good for... he shivered briefly, uh, _eating_.

And even as Lyndon said it he had a sudden feeling that they weren’t talking about rampant debauchery anymore, but something far, far more important for just the two of them, and frankly it made Lyndon a little nervous. He squeezed the Demon Hunter's arm a little tighter and glared at every statue that looked down on them, as if daring them to even _try_ to take this away from him.

For now it was... nice. It was his. It was _everything_ , and he'd hold onto it for as long as he could.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if anyone's noticed, but I have Lyndon (and other similar disreputables) cursing with the big bad F word now. In every other D3 fic I was deliberately not using it to keep in line with the game dialogue, but honestly 'Fuck' is my most favorite curse word (for its versatility and satisfactory mouth feel of course) and it was a struggle to think of alternatives (I know a lot of british slang so that helped) but aside from amusing myself with naughty words, my real reasoning for doing this is because I am writing an Adult Story with Adult Feelings, problems and Adult aged characters (even if they have a tendency to act like spoiled children) and Diablo being an M rated game, feels rather childish for having so much blood, gore, and death. 
> 
> You can cleave a unicorn in half and corpses can cartwheel across the screen, but nobody will drop an F bomb or even talk all that dirty. Seems a little hard to swallow when games like Dragon Age can capture that M rating and “adult feeling” with less than half the gore. I wanted to elevate the feeling to a more adult setting, and truly, despite his fancy accent and large vocabulary, Lyndon has, and would have, a filthy mouth. Let me know how you feel about this change in the comments!


	3. Around the Enclave, the Conversation is Lively

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn that Lyndon is not alright at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YA'LL THOUGHT I WAS DEAD, BUT LIKE A SWEATY, MUSCULAR, BOOZE-SOAKED PHOENIX, I RISE FROM THE ASHES!
> 
> This chapter was pulled out like a full-mouth tooth extraction, I hope you all will fucking appreciate this ten thousand four hundred and forty two words of pure religious exorcism lol. A lot of things have happened over the past year, job stress, getting serious about fitness, moving out, etc, but constantly working on these stories, even if I only managed a sentence a week, brought me great solace. But here we are a year later with an update, and some changes that got me motivated to finish this thing before I crack the whip on my monster-ass fic and mass-ass editing ass project (ass).
> 
> Un-beta'd because I'm a human satan, pls forgive my mistakes. Also pls enjoy, and peep my hot Twin Peaks reference.
> 
> More to come at some point because I can never rest.

 

 

 

 

> _"London Bridge is falling down,_  
>  _Falling down, falling down._  
>  _London Bridge is falling down,_  
>  _My fair lady."_
> 
>  
> 
> _— London Bridge, English Nursery Rhyme C. 1700  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
>  

 

The expansive courtyard of Westmarch's holy Zakarum Cathedral, affectionately dubbed the Survivor's Enclave by some, had grown much more crowded as of late; the empty church corridors became the main refuge for those left homeless by the recent disaster and simultaneously acted as a makeshift base of operations for all subsequent re-building efforts. Be it rubble to clear, homes to be re-bricked, or the holes of local business left by deceased workers that needed to be filled, there was a desperate and immediate need for those willing to engage in a bit of clean-up.

Or, as was so often in Jack's case, unholy creatures to cull.

Whatever people decided to call him; hero, savior, demon, or friend, Jack was first and foremost a Demon Hunter, and second a mercenary. If he could not do one, then he would do the other. There was some relief to be found in returning to his roots. After all, he had rested long enough and idleness was not something he was accustomed to.

Working class men and women formed long lines at various tables flanked by Wesmarch tabards and banners. Some bore the sigil of Zakarum, the figure of Akarat wreathed in a golden starburst, and others the face of the wolf of Westmarch. The tables were sheltered from the rain by haphazardly erected tarps and manned by tired-looking knights explaining sign-up sheets, duties, and payment. Muttered conversation of _“by the Light Frederick, if you can't write your own godsdamned name you can at least strike an X on the line can't you?”_ and the man's sullen reply, _“course I can write my damn name, but my 'ouse is burned to th' ground, I can' work for nobody withou' a roof over my head to go back to now can I?”_ reached Jack's ears as he passed. Promises were made and lodgings arranged, and within minutes another man was added to a new and fast-growing workforce. The silver lining of so much death meant that there was no shortage of jobs for those willing, or vacant places to live for those displaced.

The fire had done the worst damage for homes and buildings. Jack had claimed the payment in Urzael's molten blood, but revenge taken did not rebuild houses.

There was another table that dealt with transference of business ownership to surviving owners and family, or shops with no living inheritors would be either handed over to the capitol or the property owners of the building or block. Some popular business were auctioned off to new owners with promissory notes or plain currency. _Boring_ , Lyndon might say, but he would be pleased to know that Tustine’s Brewery rightfully passed into the hands of the eldest daughter who promised to whip the beloved Westmarch staple back into shape. Her pumpkin and apple ales were already must-have commodities in the late season, and served as yet another way to utilize the surplus of apples. Jack doubted Lyndon would appreciate that part though.

Kormac had volunteered himself a week ago to assist in tearing down the burnt shells of houses, a task where his bulk and stamina were sure to be appreciated. Jack had seen him perhaps three times since; dressed in plain-clothes, tired, and covered in black coal smudges at each appearance. It kept him busy certainly, and gave the newly ex-Templar plenty of time to think upon his next course of action.

By now, Jack had heard all about Kormac and Lyndon's adventure in the Westmarch Templar barracks. At the time he'd been far too exhausted to be properly furious at Lyndon when he'd finally let the story slip (which he suspected had been the thief's entire intention) and was just glad that neither of them had been hurt and that their friendship was finally on the mend.

Eirena divided her time between Myriam, Tyrael and Lorath, concentrating almost all of her efforts upon her magical studies. Myriam's obvious skill in enchantment made her a frequent target for Eirena's questions, and the Vecin woman was more than happy to teach Eirena what she knew in her spare time. 

Eirena's drive to learn and improve herself was incredibly strong, and Jack was sometimes a bit envious that Myriam had such a dedicated pupil. Not that Jack didn't _enjoy_ teaching Lyndon the finer points of archery and demon slaying, because he certainly did, it was just that motivating the thief to do anything he didn't immediately want to do could be... an interesting challenge at times. Though, in the short months they'd spent traveling together, Lyndon had improved three-fold. When he could actually focus and apply himself, his potential to surpass himself was limitless.

Jack had often seen Eirena and Myriam laughing over one thing or another late into the evening hours, and Jack thought that perhaps the best part of it all was the comfort Eirena gained from the company of other women. He knew there were some things their eclectic circle of companions could not offer her. Eirena still missed her sisters from a time long, long ago, and she still missed Leah, as they all did. Now though, he had never seen the enchantress happier.

 _Leah._ She had been his first friend outside of the Demon Hunter encampment. She had taught him many things about himself and others, she'd shown him how to be around other people again, and he was forever grateful to her for that. Sometimes he was ashamed by much energy he had expended trying not to think of her, but Adria was dead now and life was moving upward and onward. He found, with Lyndon's arm linked warmly with his, and his other friends alive and continuing their lives around him, that it did not hurt as much as it had before.

There were Westmarch hunting dogs underfoot throughout the courtyard, stocky fawn-colored mastiffs that had miraculously escaped unaltered in the wake of Malthael’s madness. Men barked orders, passed messages, and contributed to the general hustle and bustle in the courtyard, the hounds always loyally dogging their heels, excited to _help_ and to _do_ , their voices joyous and eager.

General Torion's hands were overflowing with tasks to attend to, and Jack found himself admiring the remarkable work ethic the man showed for his city. A true hallmark of any individual born and raised in the kingdom of Westmarch, Jack would have said, had not the very mention of the General's name brought an ugly scowl to Lyndon's face.

The church-bells chimed the tenth hour in long shivering peals, and a seemingly endless tide of people streamed inside the great cathedral for the late morning mass. Soon the great organ would begin to play a slow, melancholy tune. It was not the same instrument his father had made some fifteen years ago, but as they say, time was the great healer of all wounds.

Lyndon had frequently mentioned his great dislike for the church and those that ran it, and after hearing a few of his reasons and more than a few rather painful personal stories, Jack couldn't help but sympathize. However he avoided supporting the thief's condescending and generally ill manner that he expressed at any given opportunity toward anyone associated with the religion.

Jack had spent the better part of a decade swearing no fealty to any God, believing any and all to be non-existent, or at the very least heartless and absent. Due to recent events, he’d been having second thoughts, but for now he would continue on as he always had, holding no reverence for any all-seeing deity save the one that burned in the sky.

Jack understood Lyndon's attitude, but would not begrudge others their comforts, as there always seemed so few to be had.

“You know, if they knew what we were doing they'd condemn you, right? You _do_ know that?” Lyndon had said to him one evening in uncharacteristic seriousness after he’d told Jack a rather depressing story. It had been about a woman and her infant child who'd been denied sanctuary in the church for being branded a harlot. She had later ended up dying in the streets, the baby gone to who knows where. A tragic tale, and there were unfortunately many more just like it.

They were in bed together, having exhausted themselves by engaging in some of their more carnal activities (usually instigated by Lyndon's insatiable nature and tireless persistence). They had a fire going, and Jack could hear the ferrets playing somewhere downstairs, racing between the chair legs of the dining room table it sounded like. Outside it was raining, as it often did in late Autumn. It was comfortable and quiet here in this townhouse they had inexplicably acquired, and Jack liked it here more than he thought he would. He was so comfortable in fact, that he had been on the edge of dozing when Lyndon first spoke.

“Doing what?” Jack had asked him, blinking awake and gazing at the thief with new curiosity.

Lyndon inclined his head at the question and didn't respond for several moments. He sat cross-legged on the bed, naked and sweaty, thoughtfully stroking his mustache. He had smoothed his hair back some time ago, but it was now so messy as to be beyond saving. There was a purpling bruise on his left shoulder, and a trio of red scratches decorated the other. Bathed in firelight his skin practically glowed, and although Lyndon would balk if he ever said as much, Jack privately thought that he was very beautiful.

At that moment, Lyndon was observing a bronze Star of Akarat that was hung on the wall of the master bedroom near the window, his expression was rather pensive.

He eventually turned to Jack, the sheets shifting and pooling around his waist, with an annoyed roll of his eyes, but also with a mischievous smirk that belied any real irritation. “ _This,_ idiot.” then kissed him.

“Oh,” Jack muttered when Lyndon released him, feeling more than a little naïve, but, “who's they?” He'd never heard of such a thing before. He couldn't recall it being a problem in the small village where he'd lived the few happy years of his childhood, and it certainly hadn't mattered one tinker’s damn in the Demon Hunter settlement in the Dreadlands where world-weary people took their affections where they could find them. At least Greyscarr had certainly tried his damnedest.

Though, in all fairness, Jack supposed that for a great many years he'd hardly spared a thought for any sort of romantic inclinations at all.

"You know. _They._ " Lyndon sighed, vaguely frustrated, as he sometimes got when Jack didn't know something that Lyndon assumed to be common knowledge. “Look, I know you lived in a hole in the ground in the woods and all—”

“A settlement. In the Dreadlands.”

“A fancy and well-insulated hole then, whatever,” Lyndon said with a teasing smile and a dismissive wave of his hand. “Small places, small towns, they don't really care so much, but the larger cities do, with the exception of Caldeum probably.”

“Why?”

“Because some such rubbish about 'nobility' and 'pure bloodlines' and 'passing on the family name' and a bunch of other useless horseshit that only nobles care about,” Lyndon groused, then scrunched his face up in annoyance, “really, how do you not _know_ all this?”

“Because of my _fancy hole_.” Jack remarked a bit irritably, and this prompted a wild cackling laughter from Lyndon that took him several minutes to recover from before he was able to continue.

He sighed, wiping his eyes that had moistened from his own absurd amusement, then delicately rested his chin in the heart of his palm. “Nobles run everything, including the church, surely you know _that_ at least,” Lyndon said, “and the church gets enough donated gold from them to agree that men _fucking_ each other is bad for a few arbitrary pious reasons, and then everyone follows along and frowns on it.”

“Standard practice for any act deemed immoral by the church I suppose.” Jack said, unconcerned.

“Mmm, quite,” Lyndon agreed, then closed his eyes.

He sat quietly, swaying minutely from side to side for so long that Jack thought him asleep sitting up, but Lyndon drew himself out of his pose after a minute more, then finally sprawled out upon the bed, getting comfortable against Jack's side. He sighed, contented, and they lay there together for a few minutes, each basking in the warmth of the other.

“I think they don't care so much when women do it because they like to watch,” Lyndon said with an impish little smile, breaking the easy silence.

Jack sighed, “That's a vulgar thing to say.”

Lyndon laughed again and gripped the headboard above him to extend himself in a somewhat overtly sensuous stretch. He winced with a tight expression when something in his spine popped into place, his body writhing like a serpent before he was able to get comfortable again. Jack observed the muscles moving in his back. A pretty display. The thief rarely did such things accidentally, Jack had noticed.

“It's not really a crime is it?” Jack asked suddenly.

“Uhhhhhhhhmmmmm….” Lyndon blinked his hazel eyes at the ceiling slowly, considering, “…Who cares?”

“Lyndon!”

“ _What_?! I can't keep track of every stupid fuckbackwards law they decide to make!” Lyndon snapped, “laws change at the whims of rich noble arseholes, for all I know we could wake up tomorrow and _ale_ would be illegal,” he mused, then frowned suddenly, “uh, forget I said that.”

“Would it matter if it was?” Jack asked quietly.

“If it was what?” Lyndon mumbled into his shoulder, he was starting to get drowsy.

Jack sighed again, “a _crime_.”

Lyndon blinked, more alert again. “Are you asking if it would it matter to me? Or if it _should_ matter to _you_?”

“... _Does_ it matter to you?” Jack asked, suddenly unsure and hating it.

“Please. Have you _met_ me?” Lyndon said dismissively, “Obviously I care little for most laws and I'm already in trouble, ah, basically everywhere because of my previous profession, so it hardly tarnishes _my_ sterling reputation, but _you_ , well…” Lyndon trailed off and looked a little uncertain then, more thoughtful, “you're important, aren't you.”

“I don't care about that!” Jack said more forcefully then he'd intended, deciding then and there without thinking twice about it, “It doesn't matter to me,” he said more quietly.

“I expected you'd say that,” Lyndon smiled, nudging Jack's shoulder with his chin, something like relief spreading over his face. “I'm touched, truly.”

“It shouldn't matter. I expect other people to mind their own business.” Jack insisted, grumbling.

Lyndon snorted, “Well I hope you're prepared to be most wretchedly disappointed.”

“I am quite familiar with telling others to leave me in peace.”

“Don't I know it!” the thief laughed, “Ahh, but I suppose nothing much would happen anyway if some slavering dimwit told you that cavorting about with strange men was bad for your reputation. Or a crime or whatnot.”

“I don't— I don't _cavort_ —” Jack stuttered, embarrassed.

“Of course you don't, I'm just teasing. I merely meant that after you've slain a few Lords of Hell most people will leave you to wallow in whatever vices you please, not like they’d really be able to _stop_ you.” Lyndon grinned, “Besides, I'm hardly strange.”

“You are, without a doubt, the strangest man I have ever met.” Jack said evenly.

“Ha! But you've only met, what? Fifteen people? Twenty? You're not exactly a social butterfly.” Lyndon teased, but then got up on his elbows, “do you really think I'm stranger than _Shen_?” his eyes glittered with renewed interest as if this were some contest he endeavored to win.

“I am fairly certain that he is not a man,” Jack said, closing his eyes again, if only to spare himself the sight of Lyndon's tomfoolery.

“Hmmmmmm,” Lyndon considered this, lying back down again. “Well, lucky for you darling, _I'm_ a man,” Lyndon said against his hair, his voice low and honey-sweet before he bit gently upon the shell of his ear, “and I'd rather appreciate it— ” Lyndon kissed his neck where he knew it was sensitive, and pressed himself against the length of his body, his busy hands already wandering, “— if you'd turn over here so that we might celebrate the success of my influence upon your new life of crime— ”

Jack blinked the memory away very quickly, a bit embarrassed to have recalled it so vividly in public, and even felt faintly as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have. A glance at his companion told him that Lyndon's attention was thankfully elsewhere, but the feeling persisted. Needless really, he thought his own mortification at such recollections should have vanished by now, but years of living with an almost painful shyness was sometimes difficult to shed.

Lyndon was a bit more optimistic about the Zakarum faith lately than he'd been in the past, stating that their recent aid to the now homeless citizens of Westmarch was the most church-like he'd ever seen them. Jack supposed that if all this repenting and praying over events that had been far beyond the realm of their control and understanding made them all act a little kinder to one-another, than there would at least be some good to come of this nightmare.

Outside of Myriam's wagon there stood the longest line yet; the poor and unfortunate, the hungry, the tired, and the grieving. Jack knew such faces well.

The Vecin woman had become considerably more well-known for her exceptional cooking than for her all-seeing eye, though people looking to know their fortunes still came to her as well. Those who helped with repairs and clean-up in the city were rewarded with two meals a day, and because food was in short supply, this became the best way short of theft that one could feed themselves and their families. The demand quickly became so high that Myriam had enlisted the help of eight other women (among their number was the famed baker from Bramwell, with whom Lyndon was already well acquainted) cooking from dawn to dusk.

After half the herd of royal horses had been butchered for meat, the sitting king had opened the royal forest to sanctioned hunting parties. There was more to eat now, yes, but Jack hoped that they would not get carried away and plunder too many of the forest's beasts.

Speaking of beasts, near the warm outdoor stove at Myriam's caravan, the black wolf lay resting upon the rug, enjoying the fire's warmth. Apparently after leaving Lyndon's bed, she'd found a more suitable place to sleep with easy access to any hand-outs that Myriam might feel inclined to feed her.

The wolf wandered much in her free time, and when she returned in the evenings (or after a day or two) she would tell Jack of what she had seen in her travels. She helped to give him a clearer picture of what was happening outside the city while they idled within. Not with words exactly, but in a way that he still understood.

She had told Jack yesterday that she had come upon a cardinal and had asked him where the deer had gone. The Cardinal in turn told her that many had fled to the coast, far from the teeth of her kin, the arrows of men, and the horrors they had summoned from the heavens. She relayed that the roads were empty, the people sparse, the rabbits retreating to their warrens to hide in warm darkness for the coming winter. The boggits in the Blood Marshes did not come out at night and took their pups in long before sunset. The land was healing from Adria's poisonous magic, but the hand print burned into his arm would remain. It would fade certainly, but never completely disappear. He'd already accepted this.

The wolf also confided that she missed her brothers and sisters, and her mate, all far, far to the North in the barren lands beyond the Sharval Wilds. Jack could understand how she felt, he missed them too.

He told her they would be leaving for home soon, and she had licked his face in gladness.

The wolf had become somewhat of a luminary around the Enclave. A living embodiment of Westmarch's fighting spirit, and much loved by its residents. Jack had even seen Knights saluting her as she made her rounds. She lay right in front of the stove, uncaring of her adoring public, an out-of-place black smudge surrounded by people in colorful outfits, and dogs with their fawn colored coats, occasionally tolerating the interested heavy-petting of an unsupervised child in much the same way as she tolerated her fame; with noble and quiet grace.

When she noticed Jack, she got up and bounded over to him, seemingly grateful to be rid of small, carelessly gripping hands pulling on her fur.

The swiftly coming winter would be hard for Westmarch, Jack knew, but if they could rebuild before the snows came and stockpile what food was left, they would make it through. Westmarch had known hardship before, and had always come out intact on the other side.

Lyndon squeezed his arm, bringing him back from his thoughts, and smiled broadly at him when Jack glanced down. People often stared at the pair of them, either because of Jack's fame or Lyndon's rather public displays of affection. It was all very new, and sometimes made him feel more self-aware than he would like (and reminded him that they might be received poorly by others) but the thief never batted an eye.

Jack had a moment more to relish the warmth and comfort of their arms linked together before Lyndon released him to go to Myriam for breakfast, expelling a cheerful “Good morning Haedrig!” to the blacksmith.

Haedrig merely grunted in reply and didn't look up from where he was studiously curling small pieces of metal with a pair of fine silver pliers. Lyndon winked at Jack then wandered away to Myriam with a mournful cry of “Hey! I'm unfortunate too! Unfortunately _hungry_!” as if echoing the Demon Hunter's earlier thoughts.

“A true tragedy celdo, let Myriam fix you something,” was her gentle reply, and Jack couldn't help the bemused smile that slid across his face. It seemed neither their earlier talk, nor the dreary weather, nor even lack of sleep would dampen the thief's spirits this morning.

Jack looked back to the forge and found Haedrig staring at him, he blinked self consciously, “how are you Haedrig?” he asked, “still happy to keep the forge here despite everything?”

“Happy's one word for it I suppose, and it's too much of a hassle to move everything and set it all up again,” the smith said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I'm staying, they can try t’ throw me out if they want.”

“Business is good?”

“Aye, you might say that,” Haedrig said with a sigh, wiping his hands on a dirty rag, “people streaming out the church day an' night lately, I've got so many orders for Stars of Akarat I could sink a ship with the damn things, though I suppose work is work, and any work is good work.”

“Mm.” Jack eyed the growing pile of pendants Haedrig had been producing. They had a simple style, a little metal figure of a man with his arms outstretched to the sides, and a silver and gold starburst adhered behind. Some were only copper, some silver, others were made with a mixture of gold and tin, others with more precious metals and a few even had the addition of moonstones, opals, or diamonds.

“A lot of people want them now, but they might not later. Many are angry I think.” Haedrig said quietly.

“Angry? Why?”

“In their eyes, the church didn't do anything to prevent this, or t'stop it when it happened, not that they could've mind you, we know that, but they don't, and with the plague only a handful of years ago... some people lose faith.” Haedrig explained grimly.

“Some, perhaps.” Jack said, sure that Lyndon would say that the church could stand to lose a bit of power.

“Brycen's going to bleed out stabbing himself polishing the damn things anyhow.” Haedrig added, but there was no real irritation in his words.

Jack glanced over to the blacksmith’s young apprentice. Brycen smiled broadly from where he was seated near the caravan, and waved an already heavily bandaged hand, “Hello!”

“We keep Spots inside the caravan during the day, frightens the locals he does.” Haedrig added in a low voice.

“Ahh.” Jack had almost forgotten about Spots. The adoption of the ghostly skeletal bulldog had been a moment of weakness on his part he supposed, but Brycen seemed happy enough to keep him... keep _it_. Though, no matter how friendly Spots was, it was probably best that it wasn't within view during the normal hours kept by common folk.

It seemed that when Haedrig wasn't making religious talismans for Westmarch's newly pious, he’d been busying himself with making them some better armor. “Need something tha's gonna stop more than swords and arrows.” Haedrig had said, and after getting a good look in a mirror at the impressive scar left on his lower back by Malthael's Heaven-forged sickle blades, Jack couldn't help but agree with him.

Haedrig had taken his new bow to replace the string, it had already been a bit old for some time now and needed reviving, but instead of the more readily available animal sinew, Haedrig was going to be threading tendons harvested from slain scavenger beasts in Pandemonium. When Kormac had managed to find a spare moment to obtain these materials during their visit Jack knew not, but granted, his memory from Adria's death to the Townhouse in Westmarch Heights, a period of some forty hours, was less than pristine. He'd long since decided not to worry too much about it.

When he and Lyndon made it to the Demon Hunter Settlement Jack could get replacements for his destroyed hand-crossbows, or at the very least some decent plans that Haedrig could work with. For now the bow with Myriam's enchantment would suffice, but what he was really waiting on was his new leather breastplate, custom made of harvested demon skin, and Lyndon's new gauntlets.

“Now, if only Eirena could spare me a moment of her precious time I could get some new armor measured for 'er, she seems bound and determined to wear her clothes into rags.” Haedrig said conversationally while he examined the new bowstring.

“Her clothes are one of the few things she has from her time. I suppose she is reluctant to give them up.” Jack speculated.

“Ah, maybe Myriam can show her how to tailor them into summat new and more lasting.” Haedrig offered, “embroidery and sewing have never been my talent.”

“Nor mine.”

Jack checked the clock again on the great cathedral. They were making good time, and they'd make better time still taking the new waypoint to the harbor that Tyrael and Lorath had constructed. He hoped that eating something beforehand would help Lyndon avoid any upset stomach that form of quick magical travel tended to give him.

While he waited for his gear to be ready, Jack observed Myriam setting Lyndon up with eggs and bacon on toast. Lyndon waited on his cup of breakfast tea whilst pushing toast into his mouth like a starving goat.

“I could eat a hundred of these,” he said around a mouth full of food. Myriam simply smiled at him indulgently and poured his mug of tea, “Sugar?”

The thief swallowed and held his cup out, “Yes, sugar, lots, more than you would give anyone else,” he instructed. “You can never be sweet enough!” Myriam answered with a wink, happily spooning it in for him. Lyndon would be practically vibrating with energy soon and Jack resigned himself to that. At least he'd be alert.

Myriam spoiled him, but it seemed he had missed out on being mothered. It relieved Jack of the burden of being the man's main source of companionship and Lyndon certainly enjoyed any scrap of attention he was given. Jack observed that it was good for him.

“ _LYNDON_!”

Kormac’s loud yell startled Jack, and Lyndon too judging by the small yelp. The thief had moved to sitting upon the large chest of spare armor pieces by the boxwood fence. He had barely gotten comfortable enjoying his breakfast tea, and was now scowling at the new tea-coloured stain now forming on his cream shirt.

“Oh, Kormac,” Lyndon says amiably enough, then squinted at the cathedral's clock, “Time for your morning bellow already?”

He tried not to eavesdrop whenever Lyndon and Kormac interacted, really he did, but Jack just wanted them to get along with each other, and since they had been quite friendly lately, he was desperately curious to observe the progression of their new friendship.

That, and Lyndon tended to talk so loudly when he wasn't being stealthy that Jack could clock him in a crowd from five hundred yards away at least.

“My, you look dreadful.” Lyndon observed.

“Curious that you noticed, I was up half the night working to put out a fire!” Kormac exclaimed unhappily.

“Not that noble’s house was it?” Lyndon remarked absently, giving his tea a test sip.

“Don't act like you don't know!” Kormac snapped.

“Me? _Lyndon_?” Lyndon said with perfectly feigned surprised, “Sanctuary's most beloved scoundrel?”

Jack once again found himself reflecting that the stage had lost a gifted thespian when Lyndon had turned his talents to crime.

“Yes, _you_!” Kormac barked, causing a few heads to turn while he pointed a thick accusing finger.

“I do wish you wouldn’t shout,” Lyndon remarked with a pleading wince, “I'm barely awake.” He then poured a generous amount of amber liquid produced from a silver flask into his tea, then took another sip. Jack assumed it was whiskey, or brandy perhaps.

“Besides, your face always turns such an unpleasant purple colour when you’re angry,” Lyndon continued after he took a sip of his morning concoction, “and I can see that vein throbbing in your forehead again, just here?” he said with a grin, tapping lightly against his temple with one ringed middle finger.

“I know _you_ , and I know your tricks!” Kormac insisted.

“ _Do_ you now?”

“Yes, and I know that you had something to do with this, and I’d rather you fess up now and— and—” Kormac floundered briefly, “—and _apologize_!”

Lyndon took another long sip of tea and sighed, “Fine. I'm _sorry_ you had to put out a fire, and while I have been burning the candle at both ends lately, I promise that I haven't lit any flames save the ones of the passion variety, cross my heart.” he insisted, then added gently, “...Happy?”

Jack had believed Lyndon when he'd said he hadn’t started the fire, but that wasn’t _precisely_ what Kormac was inquiring about, but Kormac seemed uncharacteristically aware of this deflection.

In fact, Kormac looked positively livid, “No! I'm _not_ happy! The Thieves’ Guild—”

“What's a little arson between friends is it?” Lyndon snapped, holding his breakfast high out of reach from the wolf who had come to sit with him, though it would be easy pickings for her to jump up and take it if she so desired. “You _do_ recall that they don't like me anymore right?” Lyndon said, mouth full, “They aren't going to involve me in any of their little errands. Why do you think some rich shit's house burning down is _my_ fault?!”

“I don't have any hard evidence true, but call it a strong feeling!” Kormac grumbled.

“Aww, Kormac! Why didn't you tell me you had strong feelings about me?” Lyndon teased, “Ooh and _hard_ evidence! Things could have been—” he gave a deep, wistful sigh, “—So different.”

Kormac scowled at this, his mouth a thin, embarrassed line.

“Ahh, there’s that colour again!” Lyndon observed, thoroughly amused.

Something warm and soft bumped into Jack's hand, Buttercup, Haedrig's pony, had come to say hello. Her breath steamed hot and moist over his fingers as she eagerly searched for a treat she knew he had. Smiling, he produced an apple from his pack and offered it to her, and she took it gladly. At least _someone_ was happy to be eating apples all the time. The pony did do a decent job in helping him ignore Lyndon and Kormac's quarrel. They'd work it out themselves, it was essential that they did so, rather than Jack or Haedrig stepping in to break it up. The more they learned to navigate and accept each others peculiarities the better.

“And how is our “beloved” scoundrel?” Haedrig asked, startling Jack only slightly with the suddenness of the question.

"He's..." Jack looks over at Lyndon and Kormac again, then pet Buttercup's soft, velvet nose, thinking.

Lyndon was currently whispering in Kormac's ear, while the ex-templar's face scrunched and frowned at regular intervals.

“But that's _stealing_!” Kormac says a bit too loudly when Lyndon draws back.

“Will you _shut up_?!” Lyndon hissed, “I'm trying not to get arrested, the bloody guards are practically trying to crawl up my arse as it is!”

“Well, you'd deserve it!” Kormac snapped.

“Oh? If I hadn't nicked those few paintings and silverware and whatnot they'd be a great, smoldering pile of ashes. What good does that do for anyone?”

“But it's the principle of the thing!” Kormac argued in a whisper so loud he might as well have been making his voice hoarse at his usual volume.

“Now I can resell them, or even give them away if I want,” Lyndon explained, “Now someone else can enjoy them!”

“But what about the original owner's family? Aren't they entitled to their surviving property?” Kormac argued.

Annoyed by this question, Lyndon rolled his eyes and flapped his hand dismissively, “Details, details!”

 _At least Kormac seems less angry_ , Jack thought.

Lyndon seemed to be in high spirits today, despite waking up a bit ornery. Jack thinks on how he and the thief had somehow switched places, how Jack hadn’t had such long instances of unbroken sleep since he was a boy, and how strange and wonderful that was, and by contrast, Lyndon tosses and turns now. He struggles to fall asleep, buries himself in heavy blankets and wedges himself against Jack as tightly as he can, then later throws everything off complaining that he's too hot. He has more than a few nightcaps in an attempt to make sleep easier, but wakes suddenly in the dead of night and sits up for long periods. Even when sleep did come, he'd often curl in close and whimper like some lost dog, haunted by unknowable, terrible things.

Jack once suggested that he try some of Myriam's tea to get some extra sleep because it seemed to work so well, but Lyndon had merely frowned and shook his head. When pressed, he tensed as if terribly disturbed by the idea. Jack did not ask him why, and did not suggest it again.

“Who does it hurt?” Lyndon argues, “Some rich and spoiled shits who can just buy it all again? They could buy a thousand painting if they wanted. Who cares?”

“Stealing is wrong.” Kormac again insists, immovable.

Jack sighs, observing them argue themselves in circles. But Lyndon does sleep, he eats, puts on a happy face for everyone around him, and goes about his “usual activities” as he calls them, in much the same way that he always has.

"He's alright." Jack finally says, then added with some uncertainty, “...I think.”

“Yeh think, but yeh aren't sure.” Headrig replied knowingly. It was not a question.

Jack thought he could easily trace these new and worrying behaviors to a single source, the recent death of Lyndon's twin brother over which the thief harbored an incredible guilt. That kind of hurt did not just disappear, no matter how deeply one buried it.

Lyndon had other worries of course; the horrible things he'd seen, the nightmares they'd all lived through, their fast approaching visit to Kingsport and what terrible knowledge he might learn there. His paranoia about the Knights of Westmarch who desperately wanted to arrest him was its own seperate problem, and his barely disguised hatred of the Knight's captain, General Torion was another issue entirely.

Lyndon tried to sleep with him any chance he could. It seemed it was what he did to distract himself from things he didn't want to think about, or to comfort himself, or even to just relax, though he'd been known to spend over two hours in the bathtub soaking, and often fell asleep doing so. Though he couldn't really relate to these pursuits, or at least not to doing them so often, but Jack didn't mind indulging his whims. He liked Lyndon, and it was admittedly a rather good experience each time (not that he had a better frame of reference).

Another, more worrying thing that perhaps only Jack had noticed, was how, despite _everything_ , Lyndon still did not seem to entirely trust him. Jack couldn't quite put his finger on it. _Something more than just that perhaps?_ It was a difficult problem to decipher, because if Lyndon was exceptionally good at one thing, it was obscuring the truth of any dreadfully important matter.

“I'm _sorry_ ,” Jack finally heard Lyndon say over the din of his own swirling thoughts, “Happy?”

“Yes.” Kormac said stoically, folding his arms, and kicking at the stony earth, “and _no_! Try not to do it again!”

Lyndon sighed, seemingly bored with it all already, “Whatever. You’re the second person I've had to crawl through an apology for this morning and it's not even half past ten.”

Feeling relieved, Jack turned his full attention back to Haedrig, pleased at least that Lyndon and Kormac were capable of working things out between them on their own without coming to blows, even if everything else in their lives seemed to always be so unsolvable and messy.

  _And yet—_

“No, I am not sure." Jack admits to the blacksmith.

“Lad needs time,” Haedrig says after a moment's pondering, soldering a humanoid figure to the star with a bit of hot melted metal to hold them together. When the pendant was finished, he passed it to Brycen for polishing. “Heals wounds, or so they say.”

Jack smiled, “So they say. Speaking from experience?”

Haedrig eyes him a little suspiciously, then merely grunts in response.

“I'm sure yeh've got yer hands full,” Haedrig continues, rinsing his large, calloused hands in a basin of clear water, “but as you usually do, you'll figure it out. Got friends to help him now doesn't 'e?”

“He does.”

Haedrig's words did somewhat ease Jack's concerns, but not entirely. He and Lyndon would need to talk soon, and it was a conversation he couldn't help but dread.

“If I recall you befriended him quite early in our quest, long before myself or anyone else, what led to that?”

Haedrig laughed at that, “Not much to tell, Lyndon's a good companion to pair with a pint o' the black stuff, and always had more than a wild tale or two to pass the time,” he explained, “We started getting along in New Tristram, spending all our evenings at the Slaughtered Calf.”

“I hadn't noticed that.”

“Not too hard to believe, had a few other things on yer mind I imagine. Lyndon certainly complained about you plenty.”

“Did he?”

“Oh yes, called yeh a right slave driver.”

Jack sighed, “Nothing I haven't heard before.”

While Jack did not particularly care for the drink, he had passed many a pleasant evening by way of Lyndon's relentless pursuit of companionship, even before they had become—

_Lovers?_

“I saw that he was young, despite his age I mean, he's about thirty now is he?”

“Thirty one.” Jack supplied.

“Ah, doesn't seem like it, always struck me as younger,” Haedrig replied as he set about forming a new starburst of metal, gold and silver this time rather than copper, “Just as I thought you always seemed older— ah— now how old are yeh lad?”

Jack paused, but only for a moment or two longer than was customary, “Twenty one.”

Haedrig huffed a quiet little laugh of disbelief, “Gods alive, could've fooled me.”

“You are not the first to say so,” said Jack, clearing his throat and looking away.

“Aye, an' I suspect I won't be the last.”

 _Twenty one,_ Jack mused.

He was never sure of what exactly he was supposed to be at twenty one. Not _this_ surely. He often felt as though he could have easily been a hundred years old. People assumed things when you gave away your youth, expected things, so he kept it to himself as much as he thought necessary.

Jack watched a minute while Haedrig paused their conversation to secure the small metal human figure, and a tiny yellow diamond, no bigger than the head of a pin, to the plates of gold and silver. Jack enjoyed watching him work. He enjoyed watching any skilled craftsman do delicate work, and Haedrig was certainly one of the best around, but he rarely had the time to indulge such interests.

He thought sometimes, that if things had been different, if he wasn't what he was now, he could have done a similar fine craft. Woodworking, metalworking, or painting perhaps, as Lyndon so often suggested, but then he would not be here with these people now. It was pointless to dwell upon what-ifs.

“I saw that Lyndon was young-minded, and a bit foolish,” Haedrig continued once the most delicate work was done, “Reminded me of meself sometimes, when I was much the same, but he's sharp, a good lad, even when he isn't, I always knew that.”

“A good lad,” Jack smiled, “Yes.”

Jack turned his attention back to Lyndon and Kormac's nearby conversation while Haedrig moved to fetch his armor and bow. It was difficult to tune them out anyway because they both tended to be rather loud. Their talks always seemed to force Lyndon to speak more properly around the ex-Templar, not in a way that was overly condescending, but in a way that seemed like he had something to prove. Like he wanted to seem more impressive somehow.

Another observation to puzzle over, certainly, but at least it seemed their argument had ended in its entirety, and Lyndon had gone back to usual playful teasing.

“Your hair is getting longer Kormac,” Lyndon remarked, and as he did so he touched the side of Kormac's head and hair with a quick, delicate movement. “I've hardly seen you without your helmet, I was beginning to think you'd gone and turned to metal beneath it.”

Jack was very accustomed to the way of Lyndon’s handsy affections, but Kormac looked fairly stricken. Lyndon however seemed oblivious to his nervous discomfort.

“Have the iron claws of the Templar order at last been wrested from you?” Lyndon mused, grinning broadly.

Kormac blushed and looked elsewhere, “You expect me to turn to hedonism within a fortnight?”

“One can dream.”

“I simply hadn't had time to get it cut, some of us have _work_ to do,” Kormac insisted airily, “I see yours has been shorn recently, have you at last learned some propriety?”

Lyndon smooths his fingers through his hair with an air of smugness, a far cry from how uncertain and fidgety he'd been the other day letting Eirena actually cut it for him. “No, just like a change, keeps things fresh, and it's a pain when it gets too long.”

“You look almost respectable.” Kormac decided.

“Almost doesn't count!”

Kormac smiled broadly at this, but the smile didn't last, dropping off as Kormac took to examining his boots while adjusting his shirt with a few nervous pulls. “Did, uh, did Eirena cut it for you?” Kormac inquired.

“She did,” Lyndon said, taking another sip of his tea then frowning slightly, Jack guessed it had gone cold. “You could ask her to do the same for you.”

“Maybe...” Kormac mumbled, making it rather obvious that he'd been thinking of doing exactly that, but his hair had grown in length whilst he was busy piecing together the scraps of courage he needed to do so.

“Ah yes, and I'm sure you haven't gotten around to asking her the other things I told you to ask her now, did you?”

“Oh! Uh, _well_...” Kormac's face turned had turned red again, but Lyndon restrained himself from commenting.

Lyndon still teased Kormac, there would likely be no changing that, but it was gentler now, without any intention to hurt. Jack was relieved. Haedrig had been a good friend to the thief for some time, but Lyndon needed more than the meager crumbs their burly blacksmith could provide, and Jack always figured that surely his own quiet company couldn't possibly be enough for him, no matter what activities they found themselves engaged in. It was good that Lyndon was making new friends, or rather, making a new one from an old one.

“You see a lot Haedrig.” Jack observes fondly when the blacksmith finally returns bearing the finished bow, a leather breastplate, and Lyndon's new gauntlets.

Haedrig grunted, “I see enough, mostly you lot running about like chickens with yer heads cut off after one horror or another.”

Jack laughed at this, long but quietly.

“I look at people closer now than I once did, Mira taught me that,” Haedrig continued, without the slightest hesitation or hint of pain, as he might have had before, “And well the pair of you are damned bloody obvious about your ways aren't you? Lyndon's mouth is so gods damned big it's a wonder he was ever a successful cutpurse at all.”

Jack thinks of his sister, the ghost of her and their conversation, a memory to unfold and view at his leisure. He wasn't sure why he thought of her just then, but he found it didn't hurt quite so bad as before. It was easier than it had ever been before to not think about his family and relive those horrible events over and over. Easier still when he had someone living to worry about.

“I also saw that our fearless leader was a bit naive to the ways of the world, despite what he'd seen and done. And young. Much too young, but fortunately not stupid.”

Jack smiled, “Noted.”

“Here's yer bow and summat, she's good as new,” he said, handing it over. Jack immediately felt more complete just having the weapon in his hand and resting at his back.

Haedrig handed him the breastplate, which he immediately set to putting on,“This ought keep yeh in one piece, and these gauntlets will keep Lyndon's hands in thieving shape.

“It's a perfect fit, and I'm sure Lyndon will appreciate these.”

“Bah,” Haedrig said with a wave of his hand, “He'll probably be upset I didn't use gold instead of copper, even though it's too soft to protect much of anything.”

Jack smiled, imagining what Lyndon might say already, “Likely.”

“It's good to see you smile lad, it sits well on your face.”

He smiled again, he couldn't help it, “Thank you Haedrig.”

 

=+=+=+=+=

 

While Lyndon was otherwise occupied teasing Kormac, Jack felt he could spare a few more minutes to pay Myriam a quick visit. He had a question he'd been sitting on for some time.

Myriam had her hair tied back and wound into a thick braid beneath her ever-present bandanna. A knitted pink and purple shawl was wrapped around her shoulders (which did little to conceal her proudly displayed cleavage) and a little pair of fluffy knit purple shoes adorned her feet, both obviously made to match the rest of her purple-heavy attire, and were the only concessions she made to the cold and damp weather.

He stood out of the way to the side of her while she ladled a hearty looking stew into the bowls of person after person, some seemed afraid to approach with him standing there, others were simply awestruck. A bit embarrassed, Jack did his best to ignore them.

He held up the half empty bag of the “tea” mixture he'd been using to sleep within her field of view,

“Just what, _exactly_ , is in this?”

The Vecin seer smiled at him, but continued serving breakfast to the line at a high pace, “Works well?

“Yes, a little too well.”

“No bad dreams and you don't feel too groggy in the morning?” she asked quickly.

“No, but—”

“Not relying on it to fall asleep?”

“Well, _no_ , but—”

“Then what troubles you?”

“What's _in it_?” Jack nearly spat, beginning to get frustrated now.

Myriam shrugged one shoulder, unconcerned, “Chamomile as a base, cannabis, lavender, Valerian root, opium, bergamot,” she listed, “And of course a bit of my own special spice,” she said with a wink.

Jack scowled, regretting asking her already, “And what spice is that?”

She laughed, “ _Magic_ celdo, magic! Don't be so suspicious!”

“You take quite a high dose, I had to guess.” She smeared a generous heap of butter onto a thick slice of fresh bread for a little boy about ten who was staring at Jack open mouthed and had to be gently pulled away by his apologetic mother.

“I do not take kindly to being poisoned by such things.” Jack hissed once the boy was out of earshot.

Myriam made a tutting noise and frowned at him, “Celdo! You are too harsh! You are still standing aren't you?” she said, offended.

She was right he supposed, she had done nothing but help them, but the wariness was very difficult to shake. He would not trust so easily again. “Forgive me, I had a bad experience.”

“Adria?”

Something flared hotly in his chest when she said that cursed name, and he was sure she could read the answer all over his face. Unconsciously, he clenched his fist on the arm where she had burnt him. Sometimes he wished she could kill her a second time. Maybe a third for good measure.

She smiled at him kindly, “You drink a full cup to get the desired effects, but for anyone else...” She considered briefly, “I'd say about one fourth of that.”

Jack narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “Do you foresee anyone else having need of this?”

“Merely a suggestion.”

“Why do I even ask?” He says to no one in particular.

“Because you enjoy talking to Myriam!” She cooed with a warm chuckle.

Jack sighed, “That must be it.”

“Ahh celdo, you grow more playful by the day!” Myriam laughed and patted his arm affectionately, “You will let me know if you are interested in any of my _other_ potions won't you?” She asked with a sly smile.

He looked at her curiously, “ _Other_ potions? Like what?”

“One to, shall we say, increase your _stamina_?”

Jack blinked, “I feel fine enough, I drink coffee sometimes, I can't see how I would have use for such a thing, but I appreciate the offer.”

She laughed, and he felt that he might have been missing out on something.

“Surely there is something I could provide for you? Something to add a little spice, or to smooth things over?” She asked, voice hushed.

He tilted his head, confused now, “I'm... not sure I get your meaning.”

Myriam laughed loud and bright, “Celdo you are too sweet!

Obviously there was some joke that he was not in on, but he decided it was probably best to just let it go and move on.

“Will Lyndon and I be walking into trouble at the docks?”

She rolled her eyes at him, and busied herself with ladling another heaping helping of food into the next eagerly waiting empty bowl. "Ahh, trouble of a fashion, but it's much more interesting to find out on your own isn't it?"

"Not really. I like to know what I'm walking into if possible."

"You'll do fine Jack, you always do."

Sure, he would likely be fine, as he had made it this far without dying, but he was not in the habit of counting his chickens before they hatched or putting others in jeopardy without knowing all the angles. What he wanted was specifics, not speculation. He preferred to be prepared. She did however tell him that Kormac and Eirena would be joining them later on, which did give him some indication of the severity of this particular problem.

He had learned through experience that there was little to be gained from arguing with her and would just have to find out the particulars on his own.

 

=+=+=+=

 

The sun was glimmering dully through the low hanging clouds, like a coin glinting through murky water. The rain had lessened to a damp mist now, but the moisture rich air rolling in from the gulf did little to warm them. The weather kept the kind of raw chill that reddened the skin at the joints and numbed the fingers. Not the most ideal for ranged weapon use, but they would manage. It was hardly as cold as Bastion's Keep after all.

The end of rain would normally have brought Lyndon a certain degree of cheer, but the thief had been a bit miserable after they'd taken the waypoint from the enclave to the Westmarch docks. Despite breakfast, waypoint travel had unfortunately made him quite nauseous and he’d snapped at any comfort Jack had tried to offer whilst thoroughly cursing their most convenient means of transport.

His mood never quite recovered, utterly blackened from that point forward.

Fortunately it didn't take a great stretch of the imagination for Jack to guess what had really soured Lyndon's usual brightness, the thief was more than happy to tell him;

“So, did Mr. Good and Perfect Noble General of Westmarch say what, _exactly_ , it was that he wanted?” Lyndon asked with that thread of thinly veiled disdain he never could quite manage to hide when the subject of Westmarch's famed General Torion came up. That, or he simply didn't expend the effort to conceal his feelings in any way.

Jack glanced at him, wary of where this would go, “No.”

Lyndon made a noise of quiet disgust, unimpressed. “So you just jump up and run for his every beck and call now?”

“How much sleep did you _really_ get?” Jack asked, “It is unlike you to be so wretched.”

“About four hours, no thanks to _you_.” Lyndon replied tersely. He seemed to be hunting for an argument, all signs and mood swings pointing to lack of sleep, and Jack had no plans to entertain his ill humor for the rest of the day.

Trailing about a hundred paces behind them, claws clicking over wet cobblestone, the black wolf followed. Jack was grateful for her support, however distant it was for the time being.

“I can only guess that you would have been upset, had I not asked you along.” Jack explained, “You _did_ realize that when I mentioned the General asked for us, this involved actually speaking with him, did you not?”

“Eugh, _no_.” Lyndon groaned, “I wasn't awake yet, thanks.”

“Well, perhaps if you'd gotten more sleep, this would not be such a hardship for you.”

Lyndon scoffed, “That's rich, coming from you.”

“What is?”

“You, lecturing me on getting enough sleep.”

“I am accustomed to getting less.”

Lyndon bristled at this, feathers completely ruffled, “and as I am accustomed to _managing_ with less, I can only assume I _am_ fine, and I'll _be_ fine and that you should let it lie!” he snapped.

“I'm more than happy to do just that, you are _not_ yourself.” Jack answered evenly.

“Whatever. So it's the docks is it?” Lyndon prattled on, changing the subject, “So what's there then? Another carpet of noble corpses? A hideous misshapen beastie? The guards all look as scared as when this whole mess started.”

Jack sighed, but was grateful for a change in direction, “I don't know, but I doubt Torion would waste our time without good reason.”

“All these inclusive _our's_ and _we's_.” Lyndon mused, briefly examining the ragged edge of one bitten thumbnail, “I'm fairly certain he won't be happy to see me and would strongly prefer it if I weren't there at all.”

“Then at least the feeling will be mutual,” Jack mused, and was relieved to hear Lyndon's sharp burst of mirth.

“Too right!”

It was unfortunate (or fortunate, depending on how one looked at it) that the waypoint did not drop them directly at the harbor, but instead into a narrow, gated alleyway some streets over. The waypoint itself was quite cleverly made, he had to admit. With permission from the sitting King, Lorath and Tyrael worked with Haedrig to make a circle of iron inlaid directly into the stonework of the street. It would not be easily destroyed, but easily overlooked by everyday citizens. In other words, perfect for their purposes.

Their slap-dash series of stone and chalk circles that they'd hastily constructed in the midst of the crisis were slowly being replaced by more such metal inlays, when Haedrig had free time of course.

Jack could tell they were close to the docks now, merely by the increase of moisture in the air, that curious humid quality more common in warmer months, and of course the addition of that pleasant salty smell that only the ocean could produce.

The buildings along these roads were mostly empty, their windows dark and their doors tightly locked. In time, people would come back here and there would be noise and life again.

Initially inconvenienced by the extra walking distance to the docks, Jack was grateful for the time now, so Lyndon could have the opportunity to recover not only his good humor, but his constitution as well. In the space of less than half an hour he could go from the most jovial man in his company to a morose and brooding creature. Jack could not predict or track his moods as well as he would like, but he was learning to navigate them.

“He's probably looking for more thieves guild members.” Lyndon muttered a bit morosely.

“Hm?”

“Torion.” Lyndon said, “That's probably what he wants from me, other than to put me in prison of course.” he explains with a little humorless laugh. “It's a wasted effort unfortunately, most if not all the leaders have fucked off back to Kingsport by now, and none of the cronies ever know their arses from their elbows, as I'm sure you've observed.”

“Yes, but _you_ know,” Jack said.

Lyndon shrugged one shoulder dismissively, “I might know a few things.”

“Then why don't you tell him who and where they are?”

“Hmmm. Maybe if he asks nicely.”

“Don't be a child Lyndon, your aims align.”

“Do they?” Lyndon asked airily enough, but Jack knew he was still angry, “I rather fancied I'd be going to Kingsport to sort it out for myself. I'd hardly want someone else to take all the credit.”

“...True, but I'll be with you. I said you're not going alone.” Jack gently reminded him.

Lyndon softened somewhat at this, “Yeah, I know, I'm grateful and whatever, but I've done enough running and tattling, it's time I did something for once.”

“We.” Jack insisted.

“Huh?”

“It's time _we_ did something.”

“Sure.” Lyndon said distantly, but he didn't sound sure at all. A thousand question flew through the Demon Hunter's head. Did he not want Jack's help? Did he not trust him? But, as was always the case, this would be a poor time to ask them, so he'd ask another one instead;

“Does Torion know you're an assassin?”

“ _Was_ an assassin.” Lyndon insisted with one finger waggling skyward.

“Does he know that you _were_ then?” Jack corrected.

“Of course he does. Why do you think he wants me so badly?” Lyndon was rather agitated now, and Jack was again wondering if bringing him along was such a good idea. He wished Myriam had told him something more. _Damn it all._

“I'm not going to let him arrest you, if that's what you're worried about.”

Lyndon sniffed and looked elsewhere, feigning disinterest. “I'm not worried.”

Jack sighed, “I really wish you wouldn't lie.”

Lyndon scowled and ignored him, “Whatever, he's a prick anyway.”

“So you've said before.”

“And I'll say it again. He's a fucking _prick_.”

“Because he has the authority to put you in prison or his general demeanor?”

“ _General_! Ha. That. All of that, and…” He frowned, obviously upset, “Well, he doesn’t run his prisons very well does he?” Lyndon blurted, “Prisoners tend to end up _dead_ ,” he added darkly.

_Ah, so that is the heart of it. His brother._

Jack lamented Lyndon's propensity to complain about anything and everything except for what was _truly_ bothering him. He had known Lyndon was still upset, but didn't like the idea that he was quietly miserable and dealing with it in his own miserable, self-destructive way.

What could he say to him that could do any good? How could he mend such an enormous hurt?

“The city was under siege, Lyndon. He is hardly to blame for Edlin's death.” Jack tried, but it was inevitably the wrong thing to say, as the very mention of his dead brother's name brought a fresh cloud of anger and pain to Lyndon's face the likes of which Jack had not seen since they'd found his unfortunate sibling lifeless upon the cold stone floor.

“Ah, of course, how silly of me to _forget_.” Lyndon sneered, then walked ahead.

And Jack let him do so, because it was easy, and hated himself for it.

 

 


End file.
